Jina Dare and the Emerald Tablet
by D.C. Evans
Summary: This novel is available for download at in a variety of e-book formats at klaramoore dot com. It is Harry Potter fan fiction with a twist — that is to say, there is no Harry Potter, Hogwarts or Ministry of Magic in this story. I have posted Chapter One below, however I strongly suggest reading the e-book, which has been painstakingly formatted to look just like a Harry Potter book.


This novel is available for download at in a variety of e-book formats at jinadare dot com. It is Harry Potter fan fiction with a twist — that is to say, there is no Harry Potter, Hogwarts or Ministry of Magic in this story. I have posted Chapter One below, however I strongly suggest reading the e-book, which has been painstakingly formatted to look just like a Harry Potter book.

* * *

_Jina Dare has never heard of Harry Potter. As far as she can recall, she's never met a pukwudgie, never flown a racing broom, never even seen a magic wand. This might not be so surprising if Jina was a Muggle, but she is not. Jina is a witch. She is indeed the daughter of the most powerful sorcerer the country has ever known, although she herself has forgotten this fact. Perhaps some facts, it seems, are better left forgotten._

* * *

**Chapter One**

**CLEAN SLATE**

Mr. Dumfries cast a frustrated frown at the woman in charge, conjuring up the nerve to complain. All this meticulous mucking about was becoming more irksome by the minute, and he just couldn't stand it any longer. The police had a job to do of course, but so did he — a daunting task that was liable to last all night and well into morning, and who knows how many days and nights after that.

The promise of upcoming toil, however, was just a practical reason for wanting things spurred along, not to mention a rather selfish one, Mr. Dumfries admitted. Far more important in this horrid situation was the need — no, the responsibility — to honor the basic principles of respect and human decency. It just wasn't right to leave all those bodies strewn across the landscape, like . . . like fallen autumn leaves, decaying on a cold forest floor.

Actually, Mr. Dumfries supposed, on second thought, it really wasn't so much a bunch of "bodies" littering the area as it was a jumbled mess of body _parts_ . . . but the same ethical standards applied, if not more so. And the grizzly nature of the circumstances just made his forthcoming task seem all the more grave, not to mention disturbing.

The carnage was almost beyond belief. Bathed in the harsh white glow of a dozen giant flood lamps, all the severed limbs, decapitated heads and other pieces of human debris cast eerie elongated shadows in crisscrossing directions. Of course, it was some small consolation, Mr. Dumfries thought, knowing all these people had _already been dead_ — some for many decades — prior to being blown to smithereens. But that was beside the point. Mr. Dumfries couldn't think of a worse form of desecration for _anyone's_ place of rest, let alone so many . . . and there must have been hundreds!

How on earth had that poor little girl survived? After the deafening, earth-shaking explosion had drawn him to the scene, Mr. Dumfries had found her near the center of the crater, unconscious and badly hurt, but somehow still in one piece. His first order of business, of course, had been to call 9-1-1 and see the young girl to safety. Now that the ambulance had carted her off however, and his worry and amazement had begun to subside somewhat, it was time to turn attention to his _second_ order of business: he _had_ to do something about this mess, and he had to do it right _now_. He couldn't stand the thought of putting it off any longer. They must allow him to begin his work, to start sifting through the rubble and putting everything (and everyone) back in order. It was more than just his duty as caretaker: it was his responsibility as a moral and upright human being.

The thought prompted Mr. Dumfries to gaze up into the night sky, which prompted him to blink in astonishment. As if the bizarre scene on the ground wasn't extraordinary enough, there were also several peculiar things going on high above that just weren't normal. Mr. Dumfries had never seen so many shooting stars in all his sixty-seven years on earth, nor had he ever seen so many birds flying about in the dead of night. As glowing multicolored meteorites rocketed in all directions above them, dozens of winged creatures flew hither and thither throughout the lower altitudes, faintly illuminated by light escaping from the flood lamps on the ground. The owls perhaps weren't so surprising, given that they are nocturnal creatures, but to see so many at once? And the owls were _nothing_ compared to all the other birds of prey soaring above — hawks, falcons, ospreys, eagles — many, many birds that Mr. Dumfries knew were _not_ nocturnal, nor would he ever expect to see them in such numbers, even during the daytime. Marveling at the strange ariel display above his head, he could just make out the distinctive white crest of a great bald eagle, which seemed to be circling the area.

The eagle, whose name was Migizi, saw Mr. Dumfries watching her and decided it was time to move on. She'd been sidetracked for a couple of minutes, flying past the spot where a most incredible incident had occurred only but an hour or so ago. That particular amazing and unforeseen event was in fact responsible for her current mission, indeed for the entire flurry of activity now taking place all around her.

Dangling from Migizi's left leg was a leather tube case, which contained a small roll of parchment: a brief letter, written by a man the eagle didn't know. The note had been scrawled as if in haste.

_ Blackwell,_

_ Dark Lord has left us. Fleeing to Mexico with Rath. Find us in Oaxaca, if you can._

_ Wolfe _

_ P.S. So much like L.V.'s initial defeat — will L.G. also rise again?_

Messenger birds are almost never privy to the letters they carry, and this one was no exception. Had Migizi known about the man who wrote the note or his purpose in writing, she might have seen fit to "accidentally" drop her parcel somewhere in the middle of the desert (although to do so would be a gross violation of Air Post policy). Thus, without any further delay, she continued along with her mission.

On she went, gliding over a sprawling expanse of sleepy houses, a quiet church, an empty shopping mall, a darkened office complex. One large building stood out among the others, having a fair number of lit windows for such a late hour. Migizi peered through one of these windows and spied the face of a young girl — one she recognized in an instant, despite being half a mile away. (Eagles, of course, have _very_ good eyesight!)

As much as she wanted to linger and witness the girl's immediate destiny from afar, Migizi forced herself to press on, having already dilly-dallied a bit too long circling the old graveyard. She and the rest of the world would find out soon enough what fate had in store for the girl. And, with any luck, it would be something unpleasant.

The girl was just waking up from what felt like a long but restless sleep. With what seemed to take far more effort than it should, she parted her eyelids a sliver, revealing two glints of blue beneath: irises the exact same color of a clear and bright afternoon sky. Through a veil of thick black eyelashes, she gazed for a while at nothing in particular: a stark whiteness and a blurry spot of blinking red light was all she could see. Having little of interest to look at and no strength or inclination to move, she closed her eyes once more and just listened to her surroundings instead. A young woman's voice began to register, sounding thin and tinny, as though she spoke through a metal tube.

"— rushed to a nearby hospital, in critical condition. Moments ago, I spoke with the cemetery's caretaker, who was first on the scene and floored by what he found."

"At first I thought to myself: well, it's a good thing none o' these folks was alive to begin with," said a man, whose voice had the same hollow timbre as the woman's. "But then I looked down inside the smokin' pit, and lo and behold, there really _was_ someone alive in there . . . the last place you'd've ever expected. It was a miracle, a real miracle."

The girl's head was pounding. It felt like her brain was trying to expand to twice the size of what her skull would allow. In fact, every inch of her body appeared to be in some degree of pain, from the top of her throbbing head to the soles of her cold bare feet. Keeping her eyes shut tight, she began to imagine a scene: she was flying, soaring through a vast expanse of sky, the bright sun warming her face and a wonderful feeling of cool air rushing around her, leaving all her pains and troubles grounded far below. This was a familiar flight of fancy — the place to which her mind _always_ went, whenever she found herself wishing to be someplace other than where she was. She continued to half-listen to the young woman's voice as she flew in high imaginary circles.

"Authorities are still not speculating on the cause of the blast, saying only that it did not appear to be an act of terrorism. Cemetery officials are eager for the police to wrap up their investigation, expecting their own assessment and cleanup to last all night. A very long night, which, as one put it, will be followed by a very long morning of grim and awkward phone calls. Reporting live from Glendale, I'm Jean Adair."

Another woman began speaking as the girl went into a steep climb in her mind's eye.

"And we'll be bringing you more on this breaking story as information becomes available. Now let's turn to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Looks like we've been seeing some pretty funny stuff in the skies tonight, Jim."

"That's right, Diane," a man replied. "Reports of strange atmospheric phenomena have been coming in from all over the country: aurora displays as far south as Key West, and meteor showers over several major cities. In the past hour, we've received several videos of some very remarkable light shows right here in our area. Here's a clip from a viewer in Fountain Hills — truly amazing stuff."

"Wow! That is amazing," Diane chimed in.

"Yes," said Jim. "People seem to be celebrating the Fourth of July a bit early this year. Just a reminder that summer doesn't officially start until tomorrow — Independence Day is not for another two weeks, folks! Actually, Diane, all this rather takes me back, nearly thirty years ago, when I was . . ."

The sound of approaching footsteps intermingled with Jim McGuffin's voice.

"Turner, what's the status on our Jane Doe?" said the walker.

Another man responded. "Well, she's stable for now, but I'm afraid if we don't get her into surgery soon, she won't be for long."

"The O.R. should be just about ready," said the walker. "I'll go see what the holdup is." And he strode off at a brisk pace.  
The brief exchange was enough to dispel the girl's flight of fancy. Her head, no longer in the clouds, once again began to throb. Gritting her teeth against the pain, the girl brought up a hand and rubbed her aching brow. "Uuunnnggghh," she moaned.

"Oh! Wow, you — You're awake! How on earth?"

The girl opened her eyes partway and focused as well as she could on the person standing next to her, which proved rather difficult. Forcing her eyes to open all the way, she saw a tall, hefty man with a deep brown complexion and merry but very tired looking eyes. He wore a long white coat over a loose-fitting shirt patterned with images of some kind of funny cartoon character — it looked something like a raven with an orange beak, or perhaps it was a black swan.

"It's okay. Don't worry," said the man. "Just try to relax."

He stuck into his ears a pair of earplugs, which were attached to an odd tubular instrument that hung around his neck. The dangling end of the device featured a small metal horn, which the man grasped and moved toward the girl. At this, she flinched and tried to back away, then winced at the shock of searing pain the sudden movement caused.

"Hey, take it easy!" said the man, looking both surprised and concerned by the girl's reaction. "Look, it's no problem. I just need to have a listen."

The girl tried to sit herself upright, eyeing the man and the tubular contraption he was holding. Then she noticed the network of tubes that seemed to be connected to _her_. One ran from her arm, another from her nose, another from her finger. Also rather hard to miss were the myriad cuts, scrapes, and bruises that seemed to be covering every inch of her aching body.

"Ouch. What — What is that thing?" she muttered.

"Hmm? What, this?" The man indicated the odd contraption hanging around his neck.

"Yes, that," said the girl, grimacing as she touched a nasty red scuff on her arm.

"Are you serious? You don't know what this is?"

"Um, no, sorry."

"It's a stethoscope. Are you telling me you've never seen a stethoscope before?"

"A what-o-scope?"

"You _are_ serious! For pity's sake, young lady, haven't your parents ever taken you to see a _doctor_ before?"

"What's a doc—"

The girl stopped short as a particularly unsettling realization struck her. The meaning of the word "doctor" was just one tiny drop of knowledge that for some reason escaped her at the moment. But that was nothing compared to the vast ocean of other things she now found herself unable to recall — an immense sea of unknowns that even included the more important part of the man's question: her own parents! Try as she might, the girl couldn't remember anything about her mother or her father — their names, what they looked like, where they were right now. Nothing at all came to her mind's eye but the image of two dark silhouettes: two featureless faces, hidden in shadow.

How was this possible? How could anyone not know their own parents? The girl swallowed hard, trying to suppress a look of dawning horror.

"Hey," said the man. "Don't worry. It's nothing, really! I just want to have a listen to make sure you're doing okay." He flourished the speckoscope-thingy's free end. "See? I take this part here, and I place it over my heart, like this. And I can hear it beating in there. Want to listen?"

The girl closed her eyes and rubbed her aching forehead. "Oh, right. Um, no thanks," she said. "I must've — Did I get hit in the head or something? Sorry, I guess I . . . I've somehow forgotten all about doctors and stecko— um, speckoscopes."

The man chuckled. "Stethoscopes! Look, don't worry about it. I'm sure it'll all come back to you in time. Just try to relax. You're in good hands here."

The girl scanned the room, still very much uncomforted. "But, where . . . where am I, exactly?"

"You're in the hospital, in Glendale," the man said, smiling, then he added, "I.C.U."

Now feeling even more confused, the girl said, "Um, right. I see you too."

"Ha-ha! Good one! But no, that's not what I meant. I.C.U. stands for: Intensive Care Unit."

"Oh," said the girl, feeling her cheeks flush.

"I'm Dr. Turner," said the man, grinning and patting his barrel chest. "My job is to take Intensive Care of you and make sure you get better A.S.A.P. — oh, that's: As Soon As Possible."

The girl thought about this for a moment. "So then, a doctor — I mean _you_ — You're like . . . a kind of healer?"

Dr. Turner grinned from ear to ear. "Ooh! Now _that_ has a much nicer ring to it. Yes, I_ am_ a kind of healer! What did you think I was in this big white coat? A mad scientist?"

Wondering what on earth a "scientist" must be, let alone why one would be mad, the girl sat open-mouthed as she turned things over in her aching head. As bewildering and unnerving as her predicament still was, she was nevertheless quite relieved to learn that Dr. Turner was anything but a threat. Indeed, it seemed he really was there to _help_, not make things worse. By the time she'd finished thinking this, the girl's furrowed brow had loosened, and she even half-smiled.

"Ah!" said Dr. Turner. "So _now_ will you let me have a listen? I need to make sure your ticker's still tickin' in there. It's kind of my job."

"Um. Yeah, sure. Go for it," said the girl.

"Great! Thank you! Okay, now just try to relax. This won't hurt a bit."

Seeing as how it hurt just to blink, the girl rather doubted that, but she kept this thought to herself. Once Dr. Turner had finished probing with his stethoscope (which did hurt, but by no fault of his), the girl said, "So, does everything sound okay in there?"

Dr. Turner took the stethoscope out of his ears. "Verily, without a doubt, most certain and true!" he said with a cheery grin, although his eyes seemed to say something otherwise. "Sooo," he continued, as if to change the subject. "I was just wondering: have you by any chance got a name?"

The girl sighed. She'd just been mulling that very question over in her head and was so far drawing a frustrating blank. Afraid of sounding even more clueless after not knowing what a "stethoscope" or a "doctor" or an "I.C.U." was, she just said the first name that sprang to mind.

"I, uh . . . I'm Jina. Jina Dare."

Dr. Turner seemed amused by this. "Oh! Like the cute little redhead reporter on channel three?"

"Yes — Or _no_, I mean," said the girl now known as Jina Dare, feeling even more foolish than before. "My name is, um . . . it's spelled differently."

"Oh, okay," said Dr. Turner, now holding an odd kind of tablet with a funny sort of pen. "So, how _do_ you spell your name then?"

Jina grimaced, thinking she might have just dug herself into an even deeper hole. She of course had no idea who "the cute little redhead reporter on channel three" even was, much less how she spelled her name. A thought crossed her mind to just tell Dr. Turner the truth and admit that she couldn't remember her own name, but then her mouth just kind of took over and said, "Um . . . mine's like: J-I-N-A?"

"Ah, I see. So then how do you spell your last name?"

Jina half-smiled with a small measure of relief at having successfully misspelled the redhead reporter's name. Perhaps it wasn't so bad to tell this one little lie, and indeed, she rather liked the sound of her new alias.

"Oh," she said. "Um, it's D-A-R-E."

"Ooo, how exciting!" said Dr. Turner, giving Jina a wink. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Jina Dare. You know, the paramedics didn't find any identification on you, so your chart here is missing many basic details." He began writing on the tablet. "So, you are J-I-N-A . . . and D-A-R-E . . . Okay, next question."

Jina's sense of relief at spelling her phony name without incident evaporated at once. She shrank down under her thin white bed sheet, troubled by the thought of having to respond to who knows how many more questions . . . questions she was sure to _not_ know the answers to, despite the fact that they were all sure to be very easy, like: "When is your birthday?" and "Where do you live?" She was therefore pleased (and a bit surprised) when the next words out of Dr. Turner's smiling mouth were:

"Do you like magic?"

Jina once again opened her mouth to speak before being altogether sure of what she intended to say, so she just said, "Uh . . ."

Dr. Turner beamed. "Look, look! I know a great trick!" He reached into a pocket and pulled out a deck of old ragged playing cards. They were bound together with a small leather band, which he plucked off and set aside. Fanning the cards out in front of Jina, he said, "Pick a card, any card. And look at it, but don't show it to me, then set it face-down in your hand."

For a few seconds, Jina just admired the intricate design printed on the backs of all the cards, a lace pattern that seemed to be made of spiderwebs. Then she drew the King of Swords, looked at it for a moment and put it face down on her palm.

Dr. Turner slid the remaining cards back together, held out the deck and waved his free hand over it while reciting a silly sort of incantation:

"_Acey, deucey . . . joker's wild . . . mimble-wimbled and beguiled_!"

He flipped the deck's top card, and sure enough, it was Jina's card: the King of Swords. Jina took another peek at the card in her hand and blinked in astonishment — somehow, impossibly, it had been replaced by the Queen of Cups!  
Dr. Turner grinned from ear to ear, fanning the rest of the cards out in front of Jina, and she saw that they were all in order, literally arranged by suit and value.

"Wow! That's a pretty good trick," she said, handing her card back to Dr. Turner, then doing a slight double-take right before he took it — was she seeing things, or did the Queen of Cups really just _wink_ at her?

Dr. Turner seemed very pleased with himself. "Ha-haaa! Works every time. And you want to know the best part?" He put a hand up to the side of his mouth, as if sharing a secret. "I have absolutely no idea how it works!"

He pocketed the deck of cards, and Jina's smile faded as he reached for the tablet again.

"I'll never forget the funny little man who gave me these cards . . . wearing bright green robes and a big pointy hat — _hee-hee_! And he had this beard that was so long, he could tuck it right into his belt!"

Jina suppressed a snicker as two new people entered the room, one of whom looked very much like the "funny little man" Dr. Turner had just described. He was wearing emerald green robes and a large pointed hat. His graying ginger beard was at least three feet long and indeed tucked into his belt! He had a squarish, rubbery-looking face with rosy cheeks, a long thin nose, and small twinkling eyes that matched the color of his robes and hat. Though the man didn't seem exceptionally old, he had a pleasant sort of grandfatherly look about him, which put Jina at ease.

His companion was a woman, and she _did_ look old . . . very, very old, judging by the gnarled cracks that lined her wizened face and two thick braids of silver hair that hung all the way down to her knees. Her amber eyes seemed to teem with ancient wisdom. She wore flowing white robes and held a long crooked staff adorned with feathers and beads. Though rather funny to behold at first blush, both she and the man seemed to radiate an aura of great power and authority. Jina's initial reaction to giggle had indeed left her almost as soon as it had come, which she guessed was probably a very good thing.

Dr. Turner however still looked very much surprised. "What the? Oh, uh, I mean — Hello! — I'm sorry, are you family?"

"Of a sort," said the man, giving Dr. Turner an odd sort of wave. "Please, if you would be so kind as to wait out in the hall. There are several important things we wish to discuss in private."

"Oh! Okay. Sure, no problem," said Dr. Turner, wearing a jovial though somewhat dazed expression. "Here is your umbrella," he said to the man, handing over the pen and tablet. Then he stepped out of the room, whistling a merry tune.

The strange man put on a pair of pinch-nose reading glasses and began to peruse the information on the tablet.

"It seems you've had quite an adventure this evening, Miss, ah," he adjusted his spectacles and squinted at the tablet, "Miss _Dare_, is it?" He glanced up at her with a glint in his eye. "Indeed."


End file.
